LONGFELLOW'S  SONNETS 


THE   SONNETS 

OF 

HENRY  WADSWORTH 
LONGFELLOW 

ARRANGED 

WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION  BY 
FERRIS  GREENSLET 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY 

MDCCCCVII 


COPYRIGHT    I880   BY    HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

COPYRIGHT   1882,    1903,  1906   BY  ERNEST  W.  LONGFELLOW 

COPYRIGHT    1907   BY   HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TWO  HUNDRED   AND   SEVENTY -FIVE   COPIES   PRINTED 
NO.  IO 


CONTENTS 
INTRODUCTION  PAGE  ix 

I.   PERSONAL  SONNETS 

MEZZO  CAMMIN  3 

THE  TWO  RIVERS.  I-IV  4 

THE  EVENING  STAR  8 

TO-MORROW  9 

A  NAMELESS  GRAVE  10 

SLEEP  ii 

A  SHADOW  12 

THREE  FRIENDS  OF  MINE.  I-V  13 

PARKER  CLEAVELAND  18 

PRESIDENT  GARFIELD  19 

HOLIDAYS  20 

MEMORIES  21 

THE  CROSS  OF  SNOW  22 

II.   NATURE 

MOODS  25 

A  SUMMER  DAY  BY  THE  SEA  26 

THE  TIDES  27 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA  28 

THE  GALAXY  29 

MY  CATHEDRAL  30 

AUTUMN  31 

THE  HARVEST  MOON  32 

ELIOT'S  OAK  33 

VENICE  34 

GIOTTO'S  TOWER  35 

TO  THE  RIVER  RHONE  36 

BOSTON  37 

ST.  JOHN'S,  CAMBRIDGE  38 

NIGHT  39 

CHIMES  40 

NATURE  41 

III.  THE  LIFE  OF  LETTERS 

DANTE  45 

DIVINA  COMMEDIA.  I-VI  46 

WOODSTOCK  PARK  52 

DEDICATION  TO  MICHAEL  ANGELO  53 

CHAUCER  54 

SHAKESPEARE  55 

MILTON  56 

KEATS  57 
IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  TARRYTOWN      58 


THE  THREE  SILENCES  OF  MOLINOS  59 

WAPENTAKE  60 

THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  POET  61 

POSSIBILITIES  62 
ON  MRS.  KEMBLE'S  READINGS  FROM 

SHAKESPEARE  63 

THE  BROKEN  OAR  64 

THE  FOUR  PRINCESSES  AT  WILNA  65 

THE  DESCENT  OF  THE  MUSES  66 

THE  POETS  67 

MY  BOOKS  68 

APPENDIX :  EXPERIMENTS  AND  TRANS- 
LATIONS 

IL  PONTE  VECCHIO  DI  FIRENZE  71 

THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE  71 
WILL  EVER  THE  DEAR  DAYS  COME 

BACK  AGAIN?  72 

THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD,  BY  LOPE  DE  VEGA  72 

TO-MORROW,  BY  LOPE  DE  VEGA  73 

THE  NATIVE  LAND,  BY  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA  73 
THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD,  BY  FRANCISCO  DE 

ALDANA  74 

THE  BROOK  74 


SEVEN   SONNETS  AND  A  CANZONE,  BY 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  75 

TO    ITALY,    BY    VlNCENZO  DA  FlLICAJA  79 

THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT,  BY  HERNANDO 
DE  HERRERA  79 

IDEAL  BEAUTY,  BY  HERNANDO  DE  HERRERA      80 

THE  LOVER'S  COMPLAINT,  BY  HERNANDO 
DE  HERRERA  80 

ART  AND  NATURE,  BY  FRANCISCO  DE  ME- 

DRANO  8 I 

THE  TWO  HARVESTS,  BY  FRANCISCO  DE  ME- 

DRANO  8 I 

CLEAR  HONOR  OF  THE  LIQUID  ELE- 
MENT, BY  LUIS  DE  GONGORA  Y  ARGOTE  82 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

T  is  an  interesting  and  remarkable  fact 
that  Longfellow's  Sonnets  were  al- 
most entirely  the  product  of  his  later 
life,  of  the  years  when  his  character 
was  at  its  ripest  and  mellowest,  and  when  he 
had  attained  to  the  most  complete  mastery 
of  the  technique  of  the  poetic  art.  With  the 
possible  exception  of  a  translation  or  two,  his 
first  sonnet  was  "  Mezzo  Cammin,"  written  in 
1 842,  when  he  was  thirty-five  years  old.  Three 
years  later  he  wrote  the  first  Dante  sonnet  and 
"The  Evening  Star,"  and  four  years  there- 
after the  sonnet  u  On  Mrs.  Kemble's  Readings 
from  Shakespeare."  Then  —  if  the  accepted 
chronology  of  his  work  be  veracious  —  there 
was  an  interval  of  fifteen  years  without  a  son- 
net, until  1864,  when  the  first  of  the  "  Divina 
Commedia"  sonnets  appeared.  The  last  of  this 
series  of  six  was  printed  in  1867,  and  "  Giotto's 


Tower"  and  "To-morrow"  had  been  written 
in  1866.  For  six  years  again  there  were  no 
more  sonnets,  but  in  the  three  years  beginning 
with  1873  Longfellow  seems  to  have  taken  up 
the  form  deliberately  and  seriously.  In  these 
three  years  he  composed  thirty-one  sonnets, — 
more  than  half  of  this  collection,  exclusive  of 
translations.  Thence  onward  the  Sonnet  was 
one  of  his  favorite  poetic  vehicles.  The  sonnets 
of  his  last  years  include  such  wholly  fine  and 
characteristic  pieces  as  "The  Cross  of  Snow," 
written  in  1879,"  My  Books  "  and  "  President 
Garfield," writtenjn  1881,  and  "Possibilities," 
written  in  1882,  only  a  few  weeks  before  his 
death. 

Inasmuch  as  more  than  three  fourths  of 
Longfellow's  original  sonnets  were  composed 
within  the  last  decade  of  his  life,  it  is  evident 
that  any  attempt  towards  a  chronological  ar- 
rangement of  them  is  beside  the  mark.  It 
chances,  however,  that  as  one  ponders  the 
whole  body  of  his  work  in  this  kind,  it  falls  into 


a  strikingly  suggestive  tripartite  division  ;  and 
even  within  these  divisions  the  pieces  crystal- 
lize into  something  of  a  significant  autobio- 
graphic arrangement.  There  are  the  Personal 
Sonnets,  the  Sonnets  dealing  with  Nature,  and, 
finally,  those  expressing  the  aims  and  admi- 
rations of  the  Life  of  Letters.  And  how  char- 
acteristic is  the  range  of  mood  and  subject  in 
the  sonnets  of  each  section.  In  such  Personal 
Sonnets  as  "  Mezzo  Cammin,"  "  The  Two 
Rivers,"  "  Sleep,"  «  Holidays,"  and  "  Memo- 
ries," we  have  shadowed  forth  that  inner  cur- 
rent of  hopes  and  frustrations  and  attainments 
which  is  of  the  very  essence  of  personality ; 
"  The  Evening  Star "  and  "  The  Cross  of 
Snow  "  reveal  the  depth  of  the  poet's  love;  in 
"  To-morrow  "  and  "  A  Shadow  "  we  learn 
his  tender  solicitude  for  his  children,  and  in 
u  Three  Friends  of  Mine  "  the  fine,  firm  ardor 
of  his  friendships.  So  in  his  Sonnets  of  Nature, 
full  of  the  sentiment  of  the  sea  and  the  night, 
of  New  England  woodland,  and  recollected 


travel,  we  behold  the  natural  background  of 
the  poet's  mind  ;  and  in  the  pieces  dealing 
with  the  Life  of  Letters  we  discover  how  real 
and  living  a  thing  to  him  was  the  age-long  tra- 
dition, the  apostolic  succession,  of  the  poets, 
and  how  fine  was  the  idealism  that  filled  those 
long  tranquil  years  in  the  study  at  Craigie 
House.  Even  the  Experiments  and  Transla- 
tions that  have  been  grouped  in  the  appendix 
to  this  volume  have  their  characteristic  signifi- 
cance, showing  as  they  do  the  remarkable 
range  of  the  poet's  reading,  the  soundness  of 
his  critical  preferences,  and  the  masterly  crafts- 
manship of  his  hand. 

To  the  student  of  sonnet  technique  —  and 
what  reader  of  sonnets  is  incurious  of  their  com- 
position ?  —  Longfellow's  Sonnets  present  a  few 
points  of  the  first  interest.  Our  first  glance  at 
any  one  of  them  reveals  what  is  perhaps  their 
most  striking  peculiarity.  Almost  alone  among 
English  sonneteers  Longfellow  has  invariably 
followed  the  strict  Italian  system  of  indentation, 


in  which  the  first  lines  of  the  two  quatrains  of 
the  octette  and  of  the  two  tercets  of  the  ses- 
tette  are  set  out  to  the  left  without  regard  to 
the  rhyming  system,  which,  with  most  English 
sonnets,  has  determined  the  typographical  ar- 
rangement. Many  lovers  of  the  sonnet  have 
thought  this  far  superior  to  the  common  English 
arrangement,  both  for  its  accentuation  of  the 
formal  structure  of  the  sonnet,  and  for  its  more 
compact  and  sculpturesque  look  upon  the  page. 
It  will  be  found  that  in  Longfellow's  best  pieces 
the  structure  of  the  mood  and  thought  corre- 
sponds with  singular  fidelity  and  effectiveness 
to  the  physical  ordonnance  of  the  type. 

Despite  this  severity  of  structural  form  Long- 
fellow allows  himself  in  one  or  two  respects  a 
considerable  latitude.  Save  in  two  comparatively 
early  pieces,  "  The  Evening  Star  "  and  u  On 
Mrs.  Kemble's  Readings  from  Shakespeare,"  he 
never  concludes  a  sonnet  with  a  couplet,  which 
is  apt  to  break  the  harmonious  chime  of  linked 
terminations  with  too  sharp  a  peal  at  the  end, 


but  three  times  at  least,  in  u  Mezzo  Cammin," 
"  Parker  Cleaveland,"  and  "Autumn,"  he  ends 
with  an  Alexandrine.  He  makes,  too,  more 
liberal  use  of  feminine  rhymes  than  any  other 
sonnet  writer  of  equal  eminence  in  our  lan- 
guage. This  last  point  is  specially  noteworthy. 
As  the  result,  perhaps,  of  his  Romance  lore 
and  large  experience  in  translating  from  the 
Southern  tongues  Longfellow  was  a  past  mas- 
ter in  the  use  of  double  rhymes.  Three  times, 
— in  the  sonnet u  On  Mrs.  Kemble's  Readings 
from  Shakespeare,"  and  in  the  third  and  fourth 
numbers  of  the  series  entitled  "  The  Two 
Rivers,"  —  he  introduces  them  in  the  octette. 
Here  their  felicity  is,  to  say  the  least,  debata- 
ble, but  in  the  many  instances  where  they  occur 
in  the  sestette  they  blend  with  that  smooth 
harmony  of  vowels  habitual  with  Longfellow, 
with  the  recollected  cadences  that  afford  the 
ripe  sonnet  reader  one  of  his  chief  pleasures, 
and  lend  to  the  sonnet's  close  a  rich  romantic 
music  that  greatly  charms  the  ear.  The  curious 


inquirer  will  notice  that,  barring  translations, 
the  feminine  rhymes  in  the  sestette  are  found 
only  in  the  Sonnets  of  Nature,  where  they  make 
forty  per  cent  of  the  whole  number.  The  im- 
aginative reader  may  explain  this,  if  he  so 
choose,  by  the  greater  lyricism  of  the  poet's 
mood  when  stirred  by  natural  beauty. 

When  we  leave  these  technical  details  behind 
us  and  approach  Longfellow's  Sonnets  upon  the 
higher  poetic  ground,  when  we  place  them  in 
comparison  with  the  other  sonnet  books  of  our 
literature,  and  read  them  for  themselves,  we 
shall  discover  that  Longfellow's  work  in  this 
kind  is  upon  a  more  even  and  a  higher  level 
than  any  other  similar  body  of  sonnets  that  can 
readily  be  found.  There  is  no  single  sonnet  so 
fine  and  memorable  as  many  of  Shakespeare's, 
as  a  few  of  Milton's  and  Wordsworth's,  and 
as  sundry  fortunate  sonnets  by  other  hands 
that  are  among  the  choicest  treasures  of  Eng- 
lish poetry.  The  best  of  Longfellow's  never 
have  quite  the  intensity,  the  unforgetableness, 


of  these  greatest  sonnets.  Yet  their  average  is 
incomparably  high.  They  exhibit  very  notably 
the  dignity  and  repose  of  mood  which  are  es- 
sential to  sustained  success  in  sonnet-writing. 
In  grave,  nobly  impassioned  language,  adorned 
with  stately  or  vivid  imagery,  often  pointed 
with  some  quaint  and  telling  conceit,  they 
express  with  completeness  and  beauty  the 
pensively  shadowed,  tender,  and  generous  spirit 
of  one  of  the  most  sincere  of  poets. 

F.  G. 


I 

PERSONAL  SONNETS 

'WITH  THIS  KEY  SHAKESPEARE  UNLOCKED  HIS  HEART' 


MEZZO  CAMMIN 

HALF  of  my  life  is  gone,  and  I  have  let 
The  years  slip  from  me  and  have  not  fulfilled 
The  aspiration  of  my  youth,  to  build 
Some  tower  of  song  with  lofty  parapet. 

Not  indolence,  nor  pleasure,  nor  the  fret 
Of  restless  passions  that  would  not  be  stilled, 
But  sorrow,  and  a  care  that  almost  killed, 
Kept  me  from  what  I  may  accomplish  yet; 

Though,  half-way  up  the  hill,  I  see  the  Past 
Lying  beneath  me  with  its  sounds  and  sights,  — 
A  city  in  the  twilight  dim  and  vast, 

With  smoking  roofs,  soft  bells,  and  gleaming  lights,  - 
And  hear  above  me  on  the  autumnal  blast 
The  cataract  of  Death  far  thundering  from  the 
heights. 


AUGUST  25,  1842. 


THE  TWO  RIVERS 


SLOWLY  the  hour-hand  of  the  clock  moves  round; 
So  slowly  that  no  human  eye  hath  power 
To  see  it  move !  Slowly  in  shine  or  shower 
The  painted  ship  above  it,  homeward  bound, 

Sails,  but  seems  motionless,  as  if  aground; 
Yet  both  arrive  at  last;  and  in  his  tower 
The  slumberous  watchman  wakes  and  strikes  the 

hour, 
A  mellow,  measured,  melancholy  sound. 

Midnight!  the  outpost  of  advancing  day! 
The  frontier  town  and  citadel  of  night! 
The  watershed  of  Time,  from  which  the  streams 

Of  Yesterday  and  To-morrow  take  their  way, 
One  to  the  land  of  promise  and  of  light, 
One  to  the  land  of  darkness  and  of  dreams! 


O  River  of  Yesterday,  with  current  swift 

Through  chasms  descending,  and  soon  lost  to  sight, 
I  do  not  care  to  follow  in  their  flight 
The  faded  leaves,  that  on  thy  bosom  drift ! 

0  River  of  To-morrow,  I  uplift 

Mine  eyes,  and  thee  I  follow,  as  the  night 
Wanes  into  morning,  and  the  dawning  light 
Broadens,  and  all  the  shadows  fade  and  shift ! 

1  follow,  follow,  where  thy  waters  run 

Through  unfrequented,  unfamiliar  fields, 
Fragrant  with  flowers  and  musical  with  song; 
Still  follow,  follow;  sure  to  meet  the  sun, 
And  confident,  that  what  the  future  yields 
Will  be  the  right,  unless  myself  be  wrong. 


Yet  not  in  vain,  O  River  of  Yesterday, 

Through  chasms  of  darkness  to  the  deep  descending, 
I  heard  thee  sobbing  in  the  rain,  and  blending 
Thy  voice  with  other  voices  far  away. 

I  called  to  thee,  and  yet  thou  wouldst  not  stay, 
But  turbulent,  and  with  thyself  contending, 
And  torrent-like  thy  force  on  pebbles  spending, 
Thou  wouldst  not  listen  to  a  poet's  lay. 

Thoughts,  like  a  loud  and  sudden  rush  of  wings, 
Regrets  and  recollections  of  things  past, 
With  hints  and  prophecies  of  things  to  be, 

And  inspirations,  which,  could  they  be  things, 
And  stay  with  us,  and  we  could  hold  them  fast, 
Were  our  good  angels,  —  these  I  owe  to  thee. 


And  thou,  O  River  of  To-morrow,  flowing 
Between  thy  narrow  adamantine  walls, 
But  beautiful,  and  white  with  waterfalls, 
And  wreaths  of  mist,  like  hands  the  pathway 
showing; 

I  hear  the  trumpets  of  the  morning  blowing, 
I  hear  thy  mighty  voice,  that  calls  and  calls, 
And  see,  as  Ossian  saw  in  Morven's  halls, 
Mysterious  phantoms,  coming,  beckoning,  going! 

It  is  the  mystery  of  the  unknown 

That  fascinates  us;  we  are  children  still, 
Wayward  and  wistful;  with  one  hand  we  cling 

To  the  familiar  things  we  call  our  own, 
And  with  the  other,  resolute  of  will, 
Grope  in  the  dark  for  what  the  day  will  bring. 


<*[  8  ]-* 

•^ 

THE  EVENING  STAR 

Lo!  in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 

Whose  panes  the  sunken  sun  incarnadines, 
Like  a  fair  lady  at  her  casement,  shines 
The  evening  star,  the  star  of  love  and  rest! 

And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 
Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  reclines 
Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder  pines, 
With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love  oppressed. 

O  my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus ! 

My  morning  and  my  evening  star  of  love! 
My  best  and  gentlest  lady !  even  thus, 

As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above, 
Dost  thou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night, 
And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades  the  light. 


TO-MORROW 

'T  is  late  at  night,  and  in  the  realm  of  sleep 
My  little  lambs  are  folded  like  the  flocks; 
From  room  to  room  I  hear  the  wakeful  clocks 
Challenge  the  passing  hour,  like  guards  that  keep 

Their  solitary  watch  on  tower  and  steep; 
Far  off  I  hear  the  crowing  of  the  cocks, 
And  through  the  opening  door  that  time  unlocks 
Feel  the  fresh  breathing  of  To-morrow  creep. 

To-morrow !  the  mysterious,  unknown  guest, 
Who  cries  to  me:  "  Remember  Barmecide, 
And  tremble  to  be  happy  with  the  rest." 

And  I  make  answer:  "I  am  satisfied; 
I  dare  not  ask;  I  know  not  what  is  best; 
God  hath  already  said  what  shall  betide." 


•*.[    10   ]•» 

A  NAMELESS  GRAVE 

"A  SOLDIER  of  the  Union  mustered  out," 
Is  the  inscription  on  an  unknown  grave 
At  Newport  News,  beside  the  salt-sea  wave, 
Nameless  and  dateless;  sentinel  or  scout 

Shot  down  in  skirmish,  or  disastrous  rout 
Of  battle,  when  the  loud  artillery  drave 
Its  iron  wedges  through  the  ranks  of  brave 
And  doomed  battalions,  storming  the  redoubt. 

Thou  unknown  hero  sleeping  by  the  sea 
In  thy  forgotten  grave !  with  secret  shame 
I  feel  my  pulses  beat,  my  forehead  burn, 

When  I  remember  thou  hast  given  for  me 
All  that  thou  hadst,  thy  life,  thy  very  name, 
And  I  can  give  thee  nothing  in  return. 


SLEEP 

LULL  me  to  sleep,  ye  winds,  whose  fitful  sound 
Seems  from  some  faint  ^Eolian  harp-string  caught; 
Seal  up  the  hundred  wakeful  eyes  of  thought 
As  Hermes  with  his  lyre  in  sleep  profound 

The  hundred  wakeful  eyes  of  Argus  bound; 
For  I  am  weary,  and  am  overwrought 
With  too  much  toil,  with  too  much  care  distraught, 
And  with  the  iron  crown  of  anguish  crowned. 

Lay  thy  soft  hand  upon  my  brow  and  cheek, 

0  peaceful  Sleep !  until  from  pain  released 

1  breathe  again  uninterrupted  breath ! 
Ah,  with  what  subtle  meaning  did  the  Greek 

Call  thee  the  lesser  mystery  at  the  feast 
Whereof  the  greater  mystery  is  death! 


A  SHADOW 

I  SAID  unto  myself,  if  I  were  dead, 

What  would  befall  these  children  ?  What  would  be 
Their  fate,  who  now  are  looking  up  to  me 
For  help  and  furtherance  ?  Their  lives,  I  said, 

Would  be  a  volume  wherein  I  have  read 
But  the  first  chapters,  and  no  longer  see 
To  read  the  rest  of  their  dear  history, 
So  full  of  beauty  and  so  full  of  dread. 

Be  comforted;  the  world  is  very  old, 

And  generations  pass,  as  they  have  passed, 
A  troop  of  shadows  moving  with  the  sun; 

Thousands  of  times  has  the  old  tale  been  told; 
The  world  belongs  to  those  who  come  the  last, 
They  will  find  hope  and  strength  as  we  have  done. 


13 


THREE  FRIENDS  OF  MINE 


WHEN  I  remember  them,  those  friends  of  mine, 
Who  are  no  longer  here,  the  noble  three, 
Who  half  my  life  were  more  than  friends  to  me, 
And  whose  discourse  was  like  a  generous  wine, 

I  most  of  all  remember  the  divine 

Something,  that  shone  in  them,  and  made  us  see 
The  archetypal  man,  and  what  might  be 
The  amplitude  of  Nature's  first  design. 

In  vain  I  stretch  my  hands  to  clasp  their  hands; 
I  cannot  find  them.   Nothing  now  is  left 
But  a  majestic  memory.   They  meanwhile 

Wander  together  in  Elysian  lands, 

Perchance  remembering  me,  who  am  bereft 

Of  their  dear  presence,  and,  remembering,  smile. 


14  ]•» 


FELTON 

In  Attica  thy  birthplace  should  have  been, 
Or  the  Ionian  Isles,  or  where  the  seas 
Encircle  in  their  arms  the  Cyclades, 
So  wholly  Greek  wast  thou  in  thy  serene 

And  childlike  joy  of  life,  O  Philhellene! 

Around  thee  would  have  swarmed  the  Attic  bees; 
Homer  had  been  thy  friend,  or  Socrates, 
And  Plato  welcomed  thee  to  his  demesne. 

For  thee  old  legends  breathed  historic  breath; 
Thou  sawest  Poseidon  in  the  purple  sea, 
And  in  the  sunset  Jason's  fleece  of  gold! 

Oh,  what  hadst  thou  to  do  with  cruel  Death, 
Who  wast  so  full  of  life,  or  Death  with  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  die  before  thou  hadst  grown 
old! 


AGASSIZ 

I  stand  again  on  the  familiar  shore, 

And  hear  the  waves  of  the  distracted  sea 
Piteously  calling  and  lamenting  thee, 
And  waiting  restless  at  thy  cottage  door. 

The  rocks,  the  sea- weed  on  the  ocean  floor, 
The  willows  in  the  meadow,  and  the  free 
Wild  winds  of  the  Atlantic  welcome  me; 
Then  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  and  come  no 
more  ? 

Ah,  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  when  common  men 
Are  busy  with  their  trivial  affairs, 
Having  and  holding  ?  Why,  when  thou  hadst  read 

Nature's  mysterious  manuscript,  and  then 
Wast  ready  to  reveal  the  truth  it  bears, 
Why  art  thou  silent  ?  Why  shouldst  thou  be  dead  ? 


*.[  1 6  ]•*, 


SUMNER 

River,  that  stealest  with  such  silent  pace 
Around  the  City  of  the  Dead,  where  lies 
A  friend  who  bore  thy  name,  and  whom  these  eyes 
Shall  see  no  more  in  his  accustomed  place, 

Linger  and  fold  him  in  thy  soft  embrace, 

And  say  good  night,  for  now  the  western  skies 
Are  red  with  sunset,  and  gray  mists  arise 
Like  damps  that  gather  on  a  dead  man's  face. 

Good  night !  good  night !  as  we  so  oft  have  said 
Beneath  this  roof  at  midnight,  in  the  days 
That  are  no  more,  and  shall  no  more  return. 

Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  lamp  and  gone  to  bed; 
I  stay  a  little  longer,  as  one  stays 
To  cover  up  the  embers  that  still  burn. 


The  doors  are  all  wide  open ;  at  the  gate 
The  blossomed  lilacs  counterfeit  a  blaze, 
And  seem  to  warm  the  air;  a  dreamy  haze 
Hangs  o'er  the  Brighton  meadows  like  a  fate, 

And  on  their  margin,  with  sea-tides  elate, 
The  flooded  Charles,  as  in  the  happier  days, 
Writes  the  last  letter  of  his  name,  and  stays 
His  restless  steps,  as  if  compelled  to  wait. 

I  also  wait;  but  they  will  come  no  more, 

Those  friends  of  mine,  whose  presence  satisfied 
The  thirst  and  hunger  of  my  heart.   Ah  me! 

They  have  forgotten  the  pathway  to  my  door ! 
Something  is  gone  from  nature  since  they  died, 
And  summer  is  not  summer,  nor  can  be. 


<*.[  i8  ]•* 

PARKER  CLEAVELAND 

WRITTEN  ON  REVISITING  BRUNSWICK  IN  THE  SUMMER 
OF  1875 

AMONG  the  many  lives  that  I  have  known, 
None  I  remember  more  serene  and  sweet, 
More  rounded  in  itself  and  more  complete, 
Than  his,  who  lies  beneath  this  funeral  stone. 

These  pines,  that  murmur  in  low  monotone, 
These  walks  frequented  by  scholastic  feet, 
Were  all  his  world;  but  in  this  calm  retreat 
For  him  the  Teacher's  chair  became  a  throne. 

With  fond  affection  memory  loves  to  dwell 
On  the  old  days,  when  his  example  made 
A  pastime  of  the  toil  of  tongue  and  pen; 

And  now,  amid  the  groves  he  loved  so  well 
That  naught  could  lure  him  from  their  grateful 

shade, 

He  sleeps,  but  wakes  elsewhere,  for  God  hath 
said,  Amen! 


19 


PRESIDENT  GARFIELD 

<  E  VENNI  DAL  MARTIR1O  A  QUESTA  PACE/ 

Paradiso,  xv,  148. 

THESE  words  the  poet  heard  in  Paradise, 
Uttered  by  one  who,  bravely  dying  here 
In  the  true  faith,  was  living  in  that  sphere 
Where  the  celestial  cross  of  sacrifice 

Spread  its  protecting  arms  athwart  the  skies; 
And  set  thereon,  like  jewels  crystal  clear, 
The  souls  magnanimous,  that  knew  not  fear, 
Flashed  their  effulgence  on  his  dazzled  eyes. 

Ah  me!  how  dark  the  discipline  of  pain, 

Were  not  the  suffering  followed  by  the  sense 
Of  infinite  rest  and  infinite  release! 

This  is  our  consolation;  and  again 

A  great  soul  cries  to  us  in  our  suspense, 

"  I  came  from  martyrdom  unto  this  peace  !  " 


<*.[    20    ]•* 

HOLIDAYS 

THE  holiest  of  all  holidays  are  those 
Kept  by  ourselves  in  silence  and  apart; 
The  secret  anniversaries  of  the  heart, 
When  the  full  river  of  feeling  overflows;  — 

The  happy  days  unclouded  to  their  close; 
The  sudden  joys  that  out  of  darkness  start 
As  flames  from  ashes;  swift  desires  that  dart 
Like  swallows  singing  down  each  wind  that  blows ! 

White  as  the  gleam  of  a  receding  sail, 

White  as  a  cloud  that  floats  and  fades  in  air, 
White  as  the  whitest  lily  on  a  stream, 

These  tender  memories  are;  —  a  fairy  tale 

Of  some  enchanted  land  we  know  not  where, 
But  lovely  as  a  landscape  in  a  dream. 


MEMORIES 

OFT  I  remember  those  whom  I  have  known 
In  other  days,  to  whom  my  heart  was  led 
As  by  a  magnet,  and  who  are  not  dead, 
But  absent,  and  their  memories  overgrown 

With  other  thoughts  and  troubles  of  my  own, 
As  graves  with  grasses  are,  and  at  their  head 
The  stone  with  moss  and  lichens  so  o'erspread, 
Nothing  is  legible  but  the  name  alone. 

And  is  it  so  with  them  ?  After  long  years, 
Do  they  remember  me  in  the  same  way, 
And  is  the  memory  pleasant  as  to  me  ? 

I  fear  to  ask;  yet  wherefore  are  my  fears  ? 

Pleasures,  like  flowers,  may  wither  and  decay, 
And  yet  the  root  perennial  may  be. 


THE  CROSS  OF  SNOW 

IN  the  long,  sleepless  watches  of  the  night, 
A  gentle  face  —  the  face  of  one  long  dead  — 
Looks  at  me  from  the  wall,  where  round  its  head 
The  night-lamp  casts  a  halo  of  pale  light. 

Here  in  this  room  she  died;  and  soul  more  white 
Never  through  martyrdom  of  fire  was  led 
To  its  repose;  nor  can  in  books  be  read 
The  legend  of  a  life  more  benedight. 

There  is  a  mountain  in  the  distant  West 
That,  sun-defying,  in  its  deep  ravines 
Displays  a  cross  of  snow  upon  its  side. 

Such  is  the  cross  I  wear  upon  my  breast 

These  eighteen  years,  through  all  the  changing 

scenes 
And  seasons,  changeless  since  the  day  she  died. 


II 

NATURE 

<A  SONNET  IS  A  MOMENT'S  MONUMENT* 


MOODS 

OH  that  a  Song  would  sing  itself  to  me 
Out  of  the  heart  of  Nature,  or  the  heart 
Of  man,  the  child  of  Nature,  not  of  Art, 
Fresh  as  the  morning,  salt  as  the  salt  sea, 

With  just  enough  of  bitterness  to  be 

A  medicine  to  this  sluggish  mood,  and  start 
The  life-blood  in  my  veins,  and  so  impart 
Healing  and  help  in  this  dull  lethargy ! 

Alas!  not  always  doth  the  breath  of  song 

Breathe  on  us.   It  is  like  the  wind  that  bloweth 
At  its  own  will,  not  ours,  nor  tarrieth  long; 

We  hear  the  sound  thereof,  but  no  man  knoweth 
From  whence  it  comes,  so  sudden  and  swift  and 

strong, 
Nor  whither  in  its  wayward  course  it  goeth. 


<*.[    26    ]•* 

A  SUMMER  DAY  BY  THE  SEA 

THE  sun  is  set;  and  in  his  latest  beams 
Yon  little  cloud  of  ashen  gray  and  gold, 
Slowly  upon  the  amber  air  unrolled, 
The  falling  mantle  of  the  Prophet  seems. 

From  the  dim  headlands  many  a  light-house  gleams, 
The  street-lamps  of  the  ocean;  and  behold, 
Overhead  the  banners  of  the  night  unfold; 
The  day  hath  passed  into  the  land  of  dreams. 

O  summer  day  beside  the  joyous  sea! 
O  summer  day  so  wonderful  and  white, 
So  full  of  gladness  and  so  full  of  pain! 

Forever  and  forever  shalt  thou  be 

To  some  the  gravestone  of  a  dead  delight, 
To  some  the  landmark  of  a  new  domain. 


27 


THE  TIDES 

I  SAW  the  long  line  of  the  vacant  shore, 

The  sea-  weed  and  the  shells  upon  the  sand, 
And  the  brown  rocks  left  bare  on  every  hand, 
As  if  the  ebbing  tide  would  flow  no  more. 

Then  heard  I,  more  distinctly  than  before, 

The  ocean  breathe  and  its  great  breast  expand, 
And  hurrying  came  on  the  defenceless  land 
The  insurgent  waters  with  tumultuous  roar. 

All  thought  and  feeling  and  desire,  I  said, 
Love,  laughter,  and  the  exultant  joy  of  song 
Have  ebbed  from  me  forever  !    Suddenly  o'er  me 

They  swept  again  from  their  deep  ocean  bed, 
And  in  a  tumult  of  delight,  and  strong 
As  youth,  and  beautiful  as  youth,  upbore  me. 


*•[    28    ]** 

THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA 

THE  sea  awoke  at  midnight  from  its  sleep, 
And  round  the  pebbly  beaches  far  and  wide 
I  heard  the  first  wave  of  the  rising  tide 
Rush  onward  with  uninterrupted  sweep; 

A  voice  out  of  the  silence  of  the  deep, 
A  sound  mysteriously  multiplied 
As  of  a  cataract  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Or  roar  of  winds  upon  a  wooded  steep. 

So  comes  to  us  at  times,  from  the  unknown 
And  inaccessible  solitudes  of  being, 
The  rushing  of  the  sea-tides  of  the  soul; 

And  inspirations,  that  we  deem  our  own, 

Are  some  divine  foreshadowing  and  foreseeing 
Of  things  beyond  our  reason  or  control. 


THE  GALAXY 

TORRENT  of  light  and  river  of  the  air, 

Along  whose  bed  the  glimmering  stars  are  seen 
Like  gold  and  silver  sands  in  some  ravine 
Where  mountain  streams  have  left  their  channels 
bare! 

The  Spaniard  sees  in  thee  the  pathway,  where 
His  patron  saint  descended  in  the  sheen 
Of  his  celestial  armor,  on  serene 
And  quiet  nights,  when  all  the  heavens  were  fair. 

Not  this  I  see,  nor  yet  the  ancient  fable 

Of  Phaeton's  wild  course,  that  scorched  the  skies 
Where'er  the  hoofs  of  his  hot  coursers  trod; 

But  the  white  drift  of  worlds  o'er  chasms  of  sable, 
The  star-dust,  that  is  whirled  aloft  and  flies 
From  the  invisible  chariot-wheels  of  God. 


30 


MY  CATHEDRAL 

LIKE  two  cathedral  towers  these  stately  pines 
Uplift  their  fretted  summits  tipped  with  cones; 
The  arch  beneath  them  is  not  built  with  stones, 
Not  Art  but  Nature  traced  these  lovely  lines, 

And  carved  this  graceful  arabesque  of  vines; 
No  organ  but  the  wind  here  sighs  and  moans, 
No  sepulchre  conceals  a  martyr's  bones, 
No  marble  bishop  on  his  tomb  reclines. 

Enter  !  the  pavement,  carpeted  with  leaves, 
Gives  back  a  softened  echo  to  thy  tread  ! 
Listen!  the  choir  is  singing;  all  the  birds, 

In  leafy  galleries  beneath  the  eaves, 

Are  singing  !  listen,  ere  the  sound  be  fled, 
And  learn  there  may  be  worship  without  words. 


AUTUMN 

THOU  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain, 
With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant  fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand, 
And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain ! 

Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 
Upon  thy  bridge  of  gold;  thy  royal  hand 
Outstretched  with  benedictions  o'er  the  land, 
Blessing  the  farms  through  all  thy  vast  domain! 

Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  suspended 
So  long  beneath  the  heaven's  o'erhanging  eaves; 
Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer's  prayers  attended; 

Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves; 
And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation  splendid, 
Thine  almoner,  the  wind,  scatters  the  golden  leaves. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON 

IT  is  the  Harvest  Moon !  On  gilded  vanes 
And  roofs  of  villages,  on  woodland  crests 
And  their  aerial  neighborhoods  of  nests 
Deserted,  on  the  curtained  window-panes 

Of  rooms  where  children  sleep,  on  country  lanes 
And  harvest-fields,  its  mystic  splendor  rests ! 
Gone  are  the  birds  that  were  our  summer  guests; 
With  the  last  sheaves  return  the  laboring  wains ! 

All  things  are  symbols :  the  external  shows 
Of  Nature  have  their  image  in  the  mind, 
As  flowers  and  fruits  and  falling  of  the  leaves; 

The  song-birds  leave  us  at  the  summer's  close, 
Only  the  empty  nests  are  left  behind, 
And  pipings  of  the  quail  among  the  sheaves. 


*•[  33  ]** 
ELIOT'S  OAK 

THOU  ancient  oak !  whose  myriad  leaves  are  loud 
With  sounds  of  unintelligible  speech, 
Sounds  as  of  surges  on  a  shingly  beach, 
Or  multitudinous  murmurs  of  a  crowd; 

With  some  mysterious  gift  of  tongues  endowed, 
Thou  speakest  a  different  dialect  to  each ; 
To  me  a  language  that  no  man  can  teach, 
Of  a  lost  race,  long  vanished  like  a  cloud. 

For  underneath  thy  shade,  in  days  remote, 
Seated  like  Abraham  at  eventide 
Beneath  the  oaks  of  Mamre,  the  unknown 

Apostle  of  the  Indians,  Eliot,  wrote 
His  Bible  in  a  language  that  hath  died 
And  is  forgotten,  save  by  thee  alone. 


34 


VENICE 

WHITE  swan  of  cities,  slumbering  in  thy  nest 
So  wonderfully  built  among  the  reeds 
Of  the  lagoon,  that  fences  thee  and  feeds, 
As  sayeth  thy  old  historian  and  thy  guest  ! 

White  water-lily,  cradled  and  caressed 

By  ocean  streams,  and  from  the  silt  and  weeds 

Lifting  thy  golden  filaments  and  seeds, 

Thy  sun-illumined  spires,  thy  crown  and  crest! 

White  phantom  city,  whose  untrodden  streets 
Are  rivers,  and  whose  pavements  are  the  shifting 
Shadows  of  palaces  and  strips  of  sky; 

I  wait  to  see  thee  vanish  like  the  fleets 

Seen  in  mirage,  or  towers  of  cloud  uplifting 
In  air  their  unsubstantial  masonry. 


35 


GIOTTO'S  TOWER 

How  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 
By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint, 
Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without  complaint 
On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 

Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden  feet, 
Fail  of  the  nimbus  which  the  artists  paint 
Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the  saint, 
And  are  in  their  completeness  incomplete  ! 

In  the  old  Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto's  tower, 
The  lily  of  Florence  blossoming  in  stone,  — 
A  vision,  a  delight,  and  a  desire,  — 

The  builder's  perfect  and  centennial  flower, 
That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed  alone, 
But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire. 


*•[  36  ]•* 
TO  THE  RIVER  RHONE 

THOU  Royal  River,  born  of  sun  and  shower 
In  chambers  purple  with  the  Alpine  glow, 
Wrapped  in  the  spotless  ermine  of  the  snow 
And  rocked  by  tempests !  —  at  the  appointed 
hour 

Forth,  like  a  steel-clad  horseman  from  a  tower, 
With  clang  and  clink  of  harness  dost  thou  go 
To  meet  thy  vassal  torrents,  that  below 
Rush  to  receive  thee  and  obey  thy  power. 

And  now  thou  movest  in  triumphal  march, 
A  king  among  the  rivers !   On  thy  way 
A  hundred  towns  await  and  welcome  thee; 

Bridges  uplift  for  thee  the  stately  arch, 

Vineyards  encircle  thee  with  garlands  gay, 
And  fleets  attend  thy  progress  to  the  sea ! 


37 


BOSTON 

ST.  BOTOLPH'S  Town!  Hither  across  the  plains 
And  fens  of  Lincolnshire,  in  garb  austere, 
There  came  a  Saxon  monk,  and  founded  here 
A  Priory,  pillaged  by  marauding  Danes, 

So  that  thereof  no  vestige  now  remains; 
Only  a  name,  that,  spoken  loud  and  clear, 
And  echoed  in  another  hemisphere, 
Survives  the  sculptured  walls  and  painted  panes. 

St.  Botolph's  Town!  Far  over  leagues  of  land 
And  leagues  of  sea  looks  forth  its  noble  tower, 
And  far  around  the  chiming  bells  are  heard; 

So  may  that  sacred  name  forever  stand 
A  landmark,  and  a  symbol  of  the  power 
That  lies  concentred  in  a  single  word. 


ST.  JOHN'S,  CAMBRIDGE 

I  STAND  beneath  the  tree,  whose  branches  shade 
Thy  western  window,  Chapel  of  St.  John ! 
And  hear  its  leaves  repeat  their  benison 
On  him,  whose  hand  thy  stones  memorial  laid; 

Then  I  remember  one  of  whom  was  said 

In  the  world's  darkest  hour,  "  Behold  thy  son! " 
And  see  him  living  still,  and  wandering  on 
And  waiting  for  the  advent  long  delayed. 

Not  only  tongues  of  the  apostles  teach 

Lessons  of  love  and  light,  but  these  expanding 
And  sheltering  boughs  with  all  their  leaves  implore, 

And  say  in  language  clear  as  human  speech, 

"The  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  understanding, 
Be  and  abide  with  you  forevermore!  " 


*•[  39  ]•* 
NIGHT 

INTO  the  darkness  and  the  hush  of  night 

Slowly  the  landscape  sinks,  and  fades  away, 

And  with  it  fade  the  phantoms  of  the  day, 

The  ghosts  of  men  and  things,  that  haunt  the  light. 

The  crowd,  the  clamor,  the  pursuit,  the  flight, 
The  unprofitable  splendor  and  display, 
The  agitations,  and  the  cares  that  prey 
Upon  our  hearts,  all  vanish  out  of  sight. 

The  better  life  begins;  the  world  no  more 
Molests  us;  all  its  records  we  erase 
From  the  dull  commonplace  book  of  our  lives, 

That  like  a  palimpsest  is  written  o'er 
With  trivial  incidents  of  time  and  place, 
And  lo!  the  ideal,  hidden  beneath,  revives. 


40 


CHIMES 

SWEET  chimes!  that  in  the  loneliness  of  night 
Salute  the  passing  hour,  and  in  the  dark 
And  silent  chambers  of  the  household  mark 
The  movements  of  the  myriad  orbs  of  light! 

Through  my  closed  eyelids,  by  the  inner  sight, 
I  see  the  constellations  in  the  arc 
Of  their  great  circles  moving  on,  and  hark  ! 
I  almost  hear  them  singing  in  their  flight. 

Better  than  sleep  it  is  to  lie  awake, 

O'er-canopied  by  the  vast  starry  dome 
Of  the  immeasurable  sky;  to  feel 

The  slumbering  world  sink  under  us,  and  make 
Hardly  an  eddy,  —  a  mere  rush  of  foam 
On  the  great  sea  beneath  a  sinking  keel. 


NATURE 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to  bed, 
Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led, 
And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on  the  floor, 

Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door, 
Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 
By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 
Which,  though  more  splendid,  may  not  please  him 
more; 

So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 

Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the  hand 
Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay, 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends  the  what  we 
know. 


Ill 

THE  LIFE  OF  LETTERS 


«  QUICKENED   ARE  THEY  THAT  TOUCH  THE  PROPHET'S 
BONES  ' 


45 


DANTE 

TUSCAN,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of  gloom, 
With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  majestic  eyes, 
Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul  arise, 
Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 

Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom; 
Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 
What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the  skies 
The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  relume  ! 

Methinks  I  see  thee  stand  with  pallid  cheeks 
By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese, 
As  up  the  convent-walls,  in  golden  streaks, 

The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's  decrease; 
And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks, 
Thy  voice  along  the  cloister  whispers  "Peace!  " 


+*[  46  ]•* 

DIVINA  COMMEDIA 


INFERNO 

OFT  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 
Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 

Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er; 
Far  ofFthe  noises  of  the  world  retreat; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 

So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 

The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 


47 


INFERNO 

How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn  these  towers! 

This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded  sleeves 

Birds  build  their  nests;  while  canopied  with 
leaves 

Parvis  and  portal  bloom  like  trellised  bowers, 
And  the  vast  minster  seems  a  cross  of  flowers! 

But  fiends  and  dragons  on  the  gargoyled  eaves 

Watch  the  dead  Christ  between  the  living 
thieves, 

And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas  lowers ! 
Ah !  from  what  agonies  of  heart  and  brain, 

What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 

What  tenderness,  what  tears,  what  hate  of 

wrong, 
What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain, 

Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 

This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song! 


HI 
PURGATORIO 

I  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  long  aisles,  O  poet  saturnine! 
And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep  pace  with 

thine. 
The  air  is  rilled  with  some  unknown  perfume; 

The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 
For  thee  to  pass;  the  votive  tapers  shine; 
Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna  s  groves  of  pine 
The  hovering  echoes  fly  from  tomb  to  tomb. 

From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 
Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 
And  lamentations  from  the  crypts  below; 

And  then  a  voice  celestial  that  begins 

With  the  pathetic  words,  "  Although  your  sins 
As  scarlet  be,"  and  ends  with  "  as  the  snow." 


49 


IV 
PURGATORIO 

With  snow-white  veil  and  garments  as  of  flame, 
She  stands  before  thee,  who  so  long  ago 
Filled  thy  young  heart  with  passion  and  the  woe 
From  which  thy  song  and  all  its  splendors  came; 

And  while  with  stern  rebuke  she  speaks  thy  name, 
The  ice  about  thy  heart  melts  as  the  snow 
On  mountain  heights,  and  in  swift  overflow 
Comes  gushing  from  thy  lips  in  sobs  of  shame. 

Thou  makest  full  confession;  and  a  gleam, 
As  of  the  dawn  on  some  dark  forest  cast, 
Seems  on  thy  lifted  forehead  to  increase; 

Lethe  and  Eunoe  —  the  remembered  dream 
And  the  forgotten  sorrow  —  bring  at  last 
That  perfect  pardon  which  is  perfect  peace. 


5° 


PARADISO 

I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze 

With  forms  of  Saints  and  holy  men  who  died, 

Here  martyred  and  hereafter  glorified; 

And  the  great  Rose  upon  its  leaves  displays 
Christ's  Triumph,  and  the  angelic  roundelays, 

With  splendor  upon  splendor  multiplied; 

And  Beatrice  again  at  Dante's  side 

No  more  rebukes,  but  smiles  her  words  of  praise. 
And  then  the  organ  sounds,  and  unseen  choirs 

Sing  the  old  Latin  hymns  of  peace  and  love 

And  benedictions  of  the  Holy  Ghost; 
And  the  melodious  bells  among  the  spires 

O'er  all  the  house-tops  and  through  heaven  above 

Proclaim  the  elevation  of  the  Host! 


VI 


O  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty! 

O  bringer  of  the  light,  whose  splendor  shines 
Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be! 

The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 

The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines, 
Repeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy! 

Thy  flame  is  blown  abroad  from  all  the  heights, 
Through  all  the  nations,  and  a  sound  is  heard, 
As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 

Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  proselytes, 

In  their  own  language  hear  thy  wondrous  word, 
And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt. 


<*>[  5*  ]•* 
WOODSTOCK  PARK 

HERE  in  a  little  rustic  hermitage 

Alfred  the  Saxon  King,  Alfred  the  Great, 
Postponed  the  cares  of  king-craft  to  translate 
The  Consolations  of  the  Roman  sage. 

Here  Geoffrey  Chaucer  in  his  ripe  old  age 

Wrote  the  unrivalled  Tales,  which  soon  or  late 
The  venturous  hand  that  strives  to  imitate 
Vanquished  must  fall  on  the  unfinished  page. 

Two  kings  were  they,  who  ruled  by  right  divine, 
And  both  supreme;  one  in  the  realm  of  Truth, 
One  in  the  realm  of  Fiction  and  of  Song. 

What  prince  hereditary  of  their  line, 

Uprising  in  the  strength  and  flush  of  youth, 
Their  glory  shall  inherit  and  prolong  ? 


53 


DEDICATION 

TO  MICHAEL  ANGELO 

NOTHING  that  is  shall  perish  utterly, 
But  perish  only  to  revive  again 
In  other  forms,  as  clouds  restore  in  rain 
The  exhalations  of  the  land  and  sea. 

Men  build  their  houses  from  the  masonry 
Of  ruined  tombs;  the  passion  and  the  pain 
Of  hearts,  that  long  have  ceased  to  beat,  remain 
To  throb  in  hearts  that  are,  or  are  to  be. 

So  from  old  chronicles,  where  sleep  in  dust 

Names  that  once  filled  the  world  with  trumpet  tones, 
I  build  this  verse;  and  flowers  of  song  have  thrust 

Their  roots  among  the  loose  disjointed  stones, 
Which  to  this  end  I  fashion  as  I  must. 
Quickened  are  they  that  touch  the  Prophet's  bones. 


54 


CHAUCER 

AN  old  man  in  a  lodge  within  a  park; 
The  chamber  walls  depicted  all  around 
With  portraitures  of  huntsman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
And  the  hurt  deer.   He  listeneth  to  the  lark, 

Whose  song  comes  with  the  sunshine  through  the  dark 
Of  painted  glass  in  leaden  lattice  bound; 
He  listeneth  and  he  laugheth  at  the  sound, 
Then  writeth  in  a  book  like  any  clerk. 

He  is  the  poet  of  the  dawn,  who  wrote 
The  Canterbury  Tales,  and  his  old  age 
Made  beautiful  with  song;  and  as  I  read 

1  hear  the  crowing  cock,  I  hear  the  note 
(  Of  lark  and  linnet,  and  from  every  page 
Rise  odors  of  ploughed  field  or  flowery  mead. 


55 


SHAKESPEARE 

A  VISION  as  of  crowded  city  streets, 
With  human  life  in  endless  overflow; 
Thunder  of  thoroughfares;  trumpets  that  blow 
To  battle;  clamor,  in  obscure  retreats, 

Of  sailors  landed  from  their  anchored  fleets; 
Tolling  of  bells  in  turrets,  and  below 
Voices  of  children,  and  bright  flowers  that  throw 
O'er  garden-walls  their  intermingled  sweets! 

This  vision  comes  to  me  when  I  unfold 
The  volume  of  the  Poet  paramount, 
Whom  all  the  Muses  loved,  not  one  alone;  — 

Into  his  hands  they  put  the  lyre  of  gold, 

And,  crowned  with  sacred  laurel  at  their  fount, 
Placed  him  as  Musagetes  on  their  throne. 


*.[  56  ]•* 
MILTON 

I  PACE  the  sounding  sea-beach  and  behold 
How  the  voluminous  billows  roll  and  run. 
Upheaving  and  subsiding,  while  the  sun 
Shines  through  their  sheeted  emerald  far  unrolled, 

And  the  ninth  wave,  slow  gathering  fold  by  fold 
All  its  loose-flowing  garments  into  one, 
Plunges  upon  the  shore,  and  floods  the  dun 
Pale  reach  of  sands,  and  changes  them  to  gold. 

So  in  majestic  cadence  rise  and  fall 
The  mighty  undulations  of  thy  song, 
O  sightless  bard,  England's  Maeonides! 

And  ever  and  anon,  high  over  all 

Uplifted,  a  ninth  wave  superb  and  strong, 
Floods  all  the  soul  with  its  melodious  seas. 


57 


KEATS 

THE  young  Endymion  sleeps  Endymion's  sleep; 
The  shepherd-boy  whose  tale  was  left  half  told! 
The  solemn  grove  uplifts  its  shield  of  gold 
To  the  red  rising  moon,  and  loud  and  deep 

The  nightingale  is  singing  from  the  steep; 
It  is  midsummer,  but  the  air  is  cold; 
Can  it  be  death  ?   Alas,  beside  the  fold 
A  shepherd's  pipe  lies  shattered  near  his  sheep. 

Lo!  in  the  moonlight  gleams  a  marble  white, 
On  which  I  read:  "  Here  lieth  one  whose  name 
Was  writ  in  water."   And  was  this  the  meed 

Of  his  sweet  singing  ?  Rather  let  me  write: 
"  The  smoking  flax  before  it  burst  to  flame 
Was  quenched  by  death,  and  broken  the  bruised 
reed." 


<*[  58  ]•* 

IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  TARRY- 
TOWN 

HERE  lies  the  gentle  humorist,  who  died 
In  the  bright  Indian  Summer  of  his  fame! 
A  simple  stone,  with  but  a  date  and  name, 
Marks  his  secluded  resting-place  beside 

The  river  that  he  loved  and  glorified. 
Here  in  the  autumn  of  his  days  he  came, 
But  the  dry  leaves  of  life  were  all  aflame 
With  tints  that  brightened  and  were  multiplied. 

How  sweet  a  life  was  his;  how  sweet  a  death! 
Living,  to  wing  with  mirth  the  weary  hours, 
Or  with  romantic  tales  the  heart  to  cheer; 

Dying,  to  leave  a  memory  like  the  breath 
Of  summers  full  of  sunshine  and  of  showers, 
A  grief  and  gladness  in  the  atmosphere. 


59 


THE  THREE  SILENCES  OF  MOLINOS 

TO  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

THREE  Silences  there  are:  the  first  of  speech, 
The  second  of  desire,  the  third  of  thought; 
This  is  the  lore  a  Spanish  monk,  distraught 
With  dreams  and  visions,  was  the  first  to  teach. 

These  Silences,  commingling  each  with  each, 
Made  up  the  perfect  Silence  that  he  sought 
And  prayed  for,  and  wherein  at  times  he  caught 
Mysterious  sounds  from  realms  beyond  our  reach. 

O  thou,  whose  daily  life  anticipates 

The  life  to  come,  and  in  whose  thought  and  word 
The  spiritual  world  preponderates, 

Hermit  of  Amesbury  !  thou  too  hast  heard 
Voices  and  melodies  from  beyond  the  gates, 
And  speakest  only  when  thy  soul  is  stirred  ! 


ft.[  60  ]•*, 
WAPENTAKE 

TO  ALFRED  TENNYSON 

POET!  I  come  to  touch  thy  lance  with  mine; 
Not  as  a  knight,  who  on  the  listed  field 
Of  tourney  touched  his  adversary's  shield 
In  token  of  defiance,  but  in  sign 

Of  homage  to  the  mastery,  which  is  thine, 
In  English  song;  nor  will  I  keep  concealed, 
And  voiceless  as  a  rivulet  frost-congealed, 
My  admiration  for  thy  verse  divine. 

Not  of  the  howling  dervishes  of  song, 

Who  craze  the  brain  with  their  delirious  dance, 
Art  thou,  O  sweet  historian  of  the  heart! 

Therefore  to  thee  the  laurel-leaves  belong, 
To  thee  our  love  and  our  allegiance, 
For  thy  allegiance  to  the  poet's  art. 


61 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  POET 

RICHARD  HENRY  DANA 

IN  the  old  churchyard  of  his  native  town, 
And  in  the  ancestral  tomb  beside  the  wall, 
We  laid  him  in  the  sleep  that  comes  to  all, 
And  left  him  to  his  rest  and  his  renown. 

The  snow  was  falling,  as  if  Heaven  dropped  down 
White  flowers  of  Paradise  to  strew  his  pall;  — 
The  dead  around  him  seemed  to  wake,  and  call 
His  name,  as  worthy  of  so  white  a  crown. 

And  now  the  moon  is  shining  on  the  scene, 
And  the  broad  sheet  of  snow  is  written  o'er 
With  shadows  cruciform  of  leafless  trees, 

As  once  the  winding-sheet  of  Saladin 

With  chapters  of  the  Koran;  but,  ah!  more 
Mysterious  and  triumphant  signs  are  these. 


1*[  62  ]•*, 

POSSIBILITIES 

WHERE  are  the  Poets,  unto  whom  belong 

The  Olympian  heights;  whose  singing  shafts  were 

sent 

Straight  to  the  mark,  and  not  from  bows  half  bent, 
But  with  the  utmost  tension  of  the  thong  ? 

Where  are  the  stately  argosies  of  song, 

Whose  rushing  keels  made  music  as  they  went 
Sailing  in  search  of  some  new  continent, 
With  all  sail  set,  and  steady  winds  and  strong  ? 

Perhaps  there  lives  some  dreamy  boy,  untaught 
In  schools,  some  graduate  of  the  field  or  street, 
Who  shall  become  a  master  of  the  art, 

An  admiral  sailing  the  high  seas  of  thought, 
Fearless  and  first,  and  steering  with  his  fleet 
For  lands  not  yet  laid  down  in  any  chart. 


<**[  63  ]•*» 

ON  MRS.  KEMBLE'S  READINGS  FROM 
SHAKESPEARE 

O  PRECIOUS  evenings!  all  too  swiftly  sped! 
Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 
Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  sages, 
And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she  read, 
Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 
Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the  ages, 
Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said ! 

O  happy  Reader !  having  for  thy  text 

The  magic  book,  whose  Sibylline  leaves  have 

caught 
The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought! 

O  happy  Poet !  by  no  critic  vext ! 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 
To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice! 


*•[  64  ]•* 

THE  BROKEN  OAR 

ONCE  upon  Iceland's  solitary  strand 

A  poet  wandered  with  his  book  and  pen, 
Seeking  some  final  word,  some  sweet  Amen, 
Wherewith  to  close  the  volume  in  his  hand. 

The  billows  rolled  and  plunged  upon  the  sand, 
The  circling  sea-gulls  swept  beyond  his  ken, 
And  from  the  parting  cloud-rack  now  and  then 
Flashed  the  red  sunset  over  sea  and  land. 

Then  by  the  billows  at  his  feet  was  tossed 
A  broken  oar;  and  carved  thereon  he  read: 
"  Oft  was  I  weary,  when  I  toiled  at  thee;  " 

And  like  a  man,  who  findeth  what  was  lost, 
He  wrote  the  words,  then  lifted  up  his  head, 
And  flung  his  useless  pen  into  the  sea. 


*.[  65  ]•» 

THE  FOUR  PRINCESSES  AT  WILNA 

A  PHOTOGRAPH 

SWEET  faces,  that  from  pictured  casements  lean 
As  from  a  castle  window,  looking  down 
On  some  gay  pageant  passing  through  a  town, 
Yourselves  the  fairest  figures  in  the  scene; 

With  what  a  gentle  grace,  with  what  serene 
Unconsciousness  ye  wear  the  triple  crown 
Of  youth  and  beauty  and  the  fair  renown 
Of  a  great  name,  that  ne'er  hath  tarnished  been! 

From  your  soft  .eyes,  so  innocent  and  sweet, 
Four  spirits,  sweet  and  innocent  as  they, 
Gaze  on  the  world  below,  the  sky  above; 

Hark!  there  is  some  one  singing  in  the  street; 
"  Faith,  Hope,  and  Love!  these  three,"  he 

seems  to  say; 

"  These  three;  and  greatest  of  the  three  is 
Love." 


*.[  66  ]•* 

THE  DESCENT  OF  THE  MUSES 

NINE  sisters,  beautiful  in  form  and  face, 

Came  from  their  convent  on  the  shining  heights 
Of  Pierus,  the  mountain  of  delights, 
To  dwell  among  the  people  at  its  base. 

Then  seemed  the  world  to  change.  All  time  and  space, 
Splendor  of  cloudless  days  and  starry  nights, 
And  men  and  manners,  and  all  sounds  and  sights, 
Had  a  new  meaning,  a  diviner  grace. 

Proud  were  these  sisters,  but  were  not  too  proud 
To  teach  in  schools  of  little  country  towns 
Science  and  song,  and  all  the  arts  that  please; 

So  that  while  housewives  span,  and  farmers  ploughed, 
Their  comely  daughters,  clad  in  homespun  gowns, 
Learned  the  sweet  songs  of  the  Pierides. 


fu[  67  ]-* 

THE  POETS 

O  YE  dead  Poets,  who  are  living  still 
Immortal  in  your  verse,  though  life  be  fled, 
And  ye,  O  living  Poets,  who  are  dead 
Though  ye  are  living,  if  neglect  can  kill, 

Tell  me  if  in  the  darkest  hours  of  ill, 

With  drops  of  anguish  falling  fast  and  red 

From  the  sharp  crown  of  thorns  upon  your  head, 

Ye  were  not  glad  your  errand  to  fulfil  ? 

Yes;  for  the  gift  and  ministry  of  Song 

Have  something  in  them  so  divinely  sweet, 
It  can  assuage  the  bitterness  of  wrong; 

Not  in  the  clamor  of  the  crowded  street, 

Not  in  the  shouts  and  plaudits  of  the  throng, 
But  in  ourselves,  are  triumph  and  defeat. 


<«.[  68  ]•* 

MY  BOOKS 

SADLY  as  some  old  mediaeval  knight 

Gazed  at  the  arms  he  could  no  longer  wield, 
The  sword  two-handed  and  the  shining  shield 
Suspended  in  the  hall,  and  full  in  sight, 

While  secret  longings  for  the  lost  delight 
Of  tourney  or  adventure  in  the  field 
Came  over  him,  and  tears  but  half  concealed 
Trembled  and  fell  upon  his  beard  of  white, 

So  I  behold  these  books  upon  their  shelf, 
My  ornaments  and  arms  of  other  days; 
Not  wholly  useless,  though  no  longer  used, 

For  they  remind  me  of  my  other  self, 

Younger  and  stronger,  and  the  pleasant  ways 
In  which  I  walked,  now  clouded  and  confused. 


APPENDIX 
EXPERIMENTS  AND  TRANSLATIONS 


IL  PONTE  VECCHIO  DI  FIRENZE 

GADDI  mi  fece;  il  Ponte  Vecchio  sono; 
Cinquecent'  anni  gia  sull'  Arno  pianto 
II  piede,  come  il  suo  Michele  Santo 
Pianto  sul  draco.    Mentre  ch*  io  ragiono 

Lo  vedo  torcere  con  flebil  suono 

Le  rilucenti  scaglie.    Ha  questi  affranto 
Due  volte  i  miei  maggior.   Me  solo  intanto 
Neppure  muove,  ed  io  non  1*  abbandono. 

Io  mi  rammento  quando  fur  cacciati 
I  Medici  j  pur  quando  Ghibellino 
E  Guelfo  fecer  pace  mi  rammento. 

Fiorenza  i  suoi  giojelli  m'  ha  prestatij 
E  quando  penso  ch'  Agnolo  il  divino 
Su  me  posava,  insuperbir  mi  sento. 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE 

TADDEO  GADDI  built  me.   I  am  old, 

Five  centuries  old.   I  plant  my  foot  of  stone 
Upon  the  Arno,  as  St.  Michael's  own 
Was  planted  on  the  dragon.   Fold  by  fold 

Beneath  me  as  it  struggles,  I  behold 

Its  glistening  scales.   Twice  hath  it  overthrown 
My  kindred  and  companions.    Me  alone 
It  moveth  not,  but  is  by  me  controlled. 

I  can  remember  when  the  Medici 

Were  driven  from  Florence  j  longer  still  ago 
The  final  wars  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelf. 

Florence  adorns  me  with  her  jewelry; 
And  when  I  think  that  Michael  Angelo 
Hath  leaned  on  me,  I  glory  in  myself. 


•*.[  1*  ]•* 

WILL  EVER  THE  DEAR  DAYS  COME 
BACK  AGAIN  ? 

WILL  ever  the  dear  days  come  back  again, 

Those  days  of  June,  when  lilacs  were  in  bloom, 
And  bluebirds  sang  their  sonnets  in  the  gloom 
Of  leaves  that  roofed  them  in  from  sun  or  rain  ? 

I  know  not  j  but  a  presence  will  remain 
Forever  and  forever  in  this  room, 
Formless,  diffused  in  airj  like  a  perfume,  — 
A  phantom  of  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain. 

Delicious  days  !  when  every  spoken  word 
Was  like  a  footfall  nearer  and  more  near, 
And  a  mysterious  knocking  at  the  gate 

Of  the  heart's  secret  places,  and  we  heard 
In  the  sweet  tumult  of  delight  and  fear 
A  voice  that  whispered,  "  Open,  I  cannot  wait !  ** 

THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD 

EL  BUEN  PASTOR       BY  LOPE  DE  VEGA 

SHEPHERD  !  who  with  thine  amorous,  sylvan  song 
Hast  broken  the  slumber  that  encompassed  me, 
Who  mad'st  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree, 
On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so  long ! 

Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains} 

For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  shalt  bej 
I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 

Hear,  Shepherd  !  thou  who  for  thy  flock  art  dying, 
Oh,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 

Oh,  wait !  to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying, 
Wait  for  me  !   Yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 
With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  'rt  waiting  still  for  me ! 


*•[  73  ]•* 
TO-MORROW 

MANANA       BY  LOPE  DE  VEGA 

LORD,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 

Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  that  thou  didst  wait, 

Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 

And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there? 
Oh,  strange  delusion,  that  I  did  not  greet 

Thy  blest  approach!  and  oh,  to  Heaven  how  lost, 

If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 

Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet! 
How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt  see 

How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee!  " 
And,  oh!  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 

"  To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied, 

And  when  the  morrow  came  I  answered  still,  * '  To-morrow. 

THE  NATIVE  LAND 

EL  PATRIO  CIELO       BY  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA 

CLEAR  fount  of  light !  my  native  land  on  high, 

Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade ! 

Mansion  of  truth !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 

Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 

Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath  j 

But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 

With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not,  death. 
Beloved  country  !  banished  from  thy  shore, 

A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 

The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee! 
Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 

Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  way, 

That,  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my  dwelling  be. 


*•[  74  ]•* 

THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD 
LA  IMAGEN  DE  DIGS       BY  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA 

O  LORD  !  who  seest,  from  yon  starry  height, 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was  bright ! 

Eternal  Sun  !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast  given, 
To  cheer  life's  flowery  April,  fast  decays  j 
Yet,  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
Forever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Heaven. 

Celestial  King !  oh  let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 

As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 

Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it  there, 
And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 

THE  BROOK 
A  UN  ARROYUELO      ANONYMOUS 

LAUGH  of  the  mountain  !  — lyre  of  bird  and  tree! 
Pomp  of  the  meadow  !  mirror  of  the  morn ! 
The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 
The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in  thee! 

Although,  where'er  thy  devious  current  strays, 
The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems, 
To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 
Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each  shepherd's  gaze. 

How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 
As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  pebbles  count! 

How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy  current ! 
O  sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by ! 
Thou  shun'st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell  in  limpid  fount ! 


*•[  75  ]•* 
SEVEN  SONNETS  AND  A  CANZONE 

BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO 
I.     THE  ARTIST 

NOTHING  the  greatest  artist  can  conceive 
That  every  marble  block  doth  not  confine 
Within  itself  5  and  only  its  design 
The  hand  that  follows  intellect  can  achieve. 

The  ill  I  flee,  the  good  that  I  believe, 
In  thee,  fair  lady,  lofty  and  divine, 
Thus  hidden  liej  and  so  that  death  be  mine, 
Art  of  desired  success  doth  me  bereave. 

Love  is  not  guilty,  then,  nor  thy  fair  face, 
Nor  fortune,  cruelty,  nor  great  disdain, 
Of  my  disgrace,  nor  chance  nor  destiny, 

If  in  thy  heart  both  death  and  love  find  place 
At  the  same  time,  and  if  my  humble  brain, 
Burning,  can  nothing  draw  but  death  from  thee. 

II.     FIRE 

NOT  without  fire  can  any  workman  mould 

The  iron  to  his  preconceived  design, 

Nor  can  the  artist  without  fire  refine 

And  purify  from  all  its  dross  the  gold  j 
Nor  can  revive  the  phoenix,  we  are  told, 

Except  by  fire.    Hence,  if  such  death  be  mine, 

I  hope  to  rise  again  with  the  divine, 

Whom  death  augments,  and  time  cannot  make  old. 
O  sweet,  sweet  death  !    O  fortunate  fire  that  burns 

Within  me  still  to  renovate  my  days, 

Though  I  am  almost  numbered  with  the  dead ! 
If  by  its  nature  unto  heaven  returns 

This  element,  me,  kindled  in  its  blaze, 

Will  it  bear  upward  when  my  life  is  fled. 


III.     YOUTH  AND  AGE 


OH  give  me  back  the  days  when  loose  and  free 
To  my  blind  passion  were  the  curb  and  rein, 
Oh  give  me  back  the  angelic  face  again, 
With  which  all  virtue  buried  seems  to  be! 

Oh  give  my  panting  footsteps  back  to  me, 

That  are  in  age  so  slow  and  fraught  with  pain, 
And  fire  and  moisture  in  the  heart  and  brain, 
If  thou  wouldst  have  me  burn  and  weep  for  thee! 

If  it  be  true  thou  livest  alone,  Amor, 

On  the  sweet-bitter  tears  of  human  hearts, 
In  an  old  man  thou  canst  not  wake  desire  j 

Souls  that  have  almost  reached  the  other  shore 
Of  a  diviner  love  should  feel  the  darts, 
And  be  as  tinder  to  a  holier  fire. 


IV.     OLD  AGE 

THE  course  of  my  long  life  hath  reached  at  last, 
In  fragile  bark  o'er  a  tempestuous  sea, 
The  common  harbor,  where  must  rendered  be 
Account  of  all  the  actions  of  the  past. 

The  impassioned  phantasy,  that,  vague  and  vast, 
Made  art  an  idol  and  a  king  to  me, 
Was  an  illusion,  and  but  vanity 
Were  the  desires  that  lured  me  and  harassed. 

The  dreams  of  love,  that  were  so  sweet  of  yore, 

What  are  they  now,  when  two  deaths  may  be  mine,  - 
One  sure,  and  one  forecasting  its  alarms  ? 

Painting  and  sculpture  satisfy  no  more 

The  soul  now  turning  to  the  Love  Divine, 
That  oped,  to  embrace  us,  on  the  cross  its  arms. 


*[  77  y* 

V.  TO  VITTORIA  COLONNA 

LADY,  how  can  it  chance  —  yet  this  we  see 
In  long  experience  —  that  will  longer  last 
A  living  image  carved  from  quarries  vast 
Than  its  own  maker,  who  dies  presently  ? 

Cause  yieldeth  to  effect  if  this  so  be, 
And  even  Nature  is  by  Art  surpassed  j 
This  know  I,  who  to  Art  have  given  the  past, 
But  see  that  Time  is  breaking  faith  with  me. 

Perhaps  on  both  of  us  long  life  can  I 
Either  in  color  or  in  stone  bestow, 
By  now  portraying  each  in  look  and  mien  j 

So  that  a  thousand  years  after  we  die, 

How  fair  thou  wast,  and  I  how  full  of  woe, 
And  wherefore  I  so  loved  thee,  may  be  seen. 

VI.  TO  VITTORIA  COLONNA 

WHEN  the  prime  mover  of  my  many  sighs 

Heaven  took  through  death  from  out  her  earthly  place, 
Nature,  that  never  made  so  fair  a  face, 
Remained  ashamed,  and  tears  were  in  all  eyes. 

O  fate,  unheeding  my  impassioned  cries! 
O  hopes  fallacious  !  O  thou  spirit  of  grace, 
Where  art  thou  now  ?  Earth  holds  in  its  embrace 
Thy  lovely  limbs,  thy  holy  thoughts  the  skies. 

Vainly  did  cruel  death  attempt  to  stay 
The  rumor  of  thy  virtuous  renown, 
That  Lethe's  waters  could  not  wash  away! 

A  thousand  leaves,  since  he  hath  stricken  thee  down, 
Speak  of  thee,  nor  to  thee  could  Heaven  convey, 
Except  through  death,  a  refuge  and  a  crown. 


*.[  78  ]•+ 

VII.      DANTE 

WHAT  should  be  said  of  him  cannot  be  said; 

By  too  great  splendor  is  his  name  attended; 

To  blame  is  easier  those  who  him  offended, 

Than  reach  the  faintest  glory  round  him  shed. 
This  man  descended  to  the  doomed  and  dead 

For  our  instruction ;  then  to  God  ascended ; 

Heaven  opened  wide  to  him  its  portals  splendid, 

Who  from  his  country's,  closed  against  him,  fled. 
Ungrateful  land  !  To  its  own  prejudice 

Nurse  of  his  fortunes ;  and  this  showeth  well 

That  the  most  perfect  most  of  grief  shall  see. 
Among  a  thousand  proofs  let  one  suffice, 

That  as  his  exile  hath  no  parallel, 

Ne'er  walked  the  earth  a  greater  man  than  he. 

VIII.      CANZONE 

AH  me!  ah  me  !  when  thinking  of  the  years, 
The  vanished  years,  alas,  I  do  not  find 
Among  them  all  one  day  that  was  my  own ! 
Fallacious  hopes,  desires  of  the  unknown, 
Lamenting,  loving,  burning,  and  in  tears, 
(For  human  passions  all  have  stirred  my  mind,) 
Have  held  me,  now  I  feel  and  know,  confined 
Both  from  the  true  and  good  still  far  away, 

I  perish  day  by  day; 

The  sunshine  fails,  the  shadows  grow  more  dreary, 
And  I  am  near  to  fall,  infirm  and  weary. 


*•[  79  ]** 
TO  ITALY 

BY  VINCENZO  DA  FILICAJA 

ITALY  !  Italy !  thou  who'rt  doomed  to  wear 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  and  possess 
The  dower  funest  of  infinite  wretchedness 
Written  upon  thy  forehead  by  despair  ; 

Ah !  would  that  thou  wert  stronger,  or  less  fair, 
That  they  might  fear  thee  more,  or  love  thee  less, 
Who  in  the  splendor  of  thy  loveliness 
Seem  wasting,  yet  to  mortal  combat  dare  ( 

Then  from  the  Alps  I  should  not  see  descending 
Such  torrents  of  armed  men,  nor  Gallic  horde 
Drinking  the  wave  of  Po,  distained  with  gore, 

Nor  should  I  see  thee  girded  with  a  sword 

Not  thine,  and  with  the  stranger's  arm  contending, 
Victor  or  vanquished,  slave  forevermore. 

THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 
BY  HERNANDO  DE  HERRERA 

PURE  Spirit !  that  within  a  form  of  clay 

Once  veiled  the  brightness  of  thy  native  sky; 
In  dreamless  slumber  sealed  thy  burning  eye, 
Nor  heavenward  sought  to  wing  thy  flight  away ! 

He  that  chastised  thee  did  at  length  unclose 

Thy  prison  doors,  and  give  thee  sweet  release;  — 
Unloosed  the  mortal  coil,  eternal  peace 
Received  thee  to  its  stillness  and  repose. 

Look  down  once  more  from  thy  celestial  dwelling, 
Help  me  to  rise  and  be  immortal  there,  — 
An  earthly  vapor  melting  into  air;  — 

For  my  whole  soul,  with  secret  ardor  swelling, 
From  earth's  dark  mansion  struggles  to  be  free, 
And  longs  to  soar  away  and  be  at  rest  with  thee. 


<*•[  8o  ]•*, 
IDEAL  BEAUTY 

BY  HERNANDO  DE  HERRERA 

O  LIGHT  serene  !  present  in  him  who  breathes 
That  love  divine,  which  kindles  yet  restrains 
The  high-born  soul  —  that  in  its  mortal  chains 
Heavenward  aspires  for  love's  immortal  wreaths  ! 

Rich  golden  locks,  within  whose  clustered  curls 
Celestial  and  eternal  treasures  lie  ! 
A  voice  that  breathes  angelic  harmony 
Among  bright  coral  and  unspotted  pearls  ! 

What  marvellous  beauty!    Of  the  high  estate 
Of  immortality,  within  this  light 
Transparent  veil  of  flesh,  a  glimpse  is  given  5 

And  in  the  glorious  form,  I  contemplate, 

(Although  its  brightness  blinds  my  feeble  sight,) 
The  immortal  still  I  seek  and  follow  on  to  Heaven  ! 

THE  LOVER'S  COMPLAINT 

BY  HERNANDO  DE  HERRERA 

BRIGHT  Sun !  that,  flaming  through  the  mid-day  sky, 
Fillest  with  light  heaven's  blue,  deep- vaulted  arch, 
Say,  hast  thou  seen  in  thy  celestial  march 
One  hue  to  rival  this  blue,  tranquil  eye  ? 

Thou  Summer  Wind,  of  soft  and  delicate  touch, 
Fanning  me  gently  with  thy  cool,  fresh  pinion, 
Say,  hast  thou  found,  in  all  thy  wide  dominion, 
Tresses  of  gold,  that  can  delight  so  much  ? 

Moon,  honor  of  the  night  !   Thou  glorious  choir 
Of  wandering  Planets  and  eternal  Stars  ! 
Say,  have  ye  seen  two  peerless  orbs  like  these  ? 

Answer  me,  Sun,  Air,  Moon,  and  Stars  of  fire  — 
Hear  ye  my  woes,  that  know  no  bounds  nor  bars  ? 
See  ye  these  cruel  stars,  that  brighten  and  yet  freeze  ? 


*.[     8l     ]•* 

ART  AND  NATURE 

BY  FRANCISCO  DE  MEDRANO 

THE  works  of  human  artifice  soon  tire 

The  curious  eye;  the  fountain's  sparkling  rill, 
And  gardens,  when  adorned  by  human  skill, 
Reproach  the  feeble  hand,  the  vain  desire. 

But  oh  !  the  free  and  wild  magnificence 
Of  Nature,  in  her  lavish  hours,  doth  steal, 
In  admiration  silent  and  intense, 
The  soul  of  him  who  hath  a  soul  to  feel. 

The  river  moving  on  its  ceaseless  way, 

The  verdant  reach  of  meadows  fair  and  green, 
And  the  blue  hills,  that  bound  the  sylvan  scene, 

These  speak  of  grandeur,  that  defies  decay,  — 
Proclaim  the  Eternal  Architect  on  high, 
Who  stamps  on  all  his  works  his  own  eternity. 

THE  TWO  HARVESTS 
BY  FRANCISCO  DE  MEDRANO 

BUT  yesterday  these  few  and  hoary  sheaves 
Waved  in  the  golden  harvest;  from  the  plain 
I  saw  the  blade  shoot  upward,  and  the  grain 
Put  forth  the  unripe  ear  and  tender  leaves. 

Then  the  glad  upland  smiled  upon  the  view, 
And  to  the  air  the  broad  green  leaves  unrolled. 
A  peerless  emerald  in  each  silken  fold, 
And  on  each  palm  a  pearl  of  morning  dew. 

And  thus  sprang  up  and  ripened  in  brief  space 
All  that  beneath  the  reaper's  sickle  died, 
All  that  smiled  beauteous  in  the  summer-tide. 

And  what  are  we  ?  a  copy  of  that  race, 
The  later  harvest  of  a  longer  year  ! 
And  oh !  how  many  fall  before  the  ripened  ear  ! 


<*-[    82    ]•* 

CLEAR  HONOR  OF  THE  LIQUID  ELEMENT 

BY  LUIS  DE  GONGORA  Y  ARGOTE 

CLEAR  honor  of  the  liquid  element, 
Sweet  rivulet  of  shining  silver  sheen  ! 
Whose  waters  steal  along  the  meadows  green, 
With  gentle  step,  and  murmur  of  content ! 

When  she,  for  whom  I  bear  each  fierce  extreme, 
Beholds  herself  in  thee,  —  then  Love  doth  trace 
The  snow  and  crimson  of  that  lovely  face 
In  the  soft  gentle  movement  of  thy  stream. 

Then  smoothly  flow  as  now  j  and  set  not  free 
The  crystal  curb  and  undulating  rein 
Which  now  thy  current's  headlong  speed  restrain  5 

Lest  broken  and  confused  the  image  rest 

Of  such  rare  charms  on  the  deep-heaving  breast 
Of  him  who  holds  and  sways  the  trident  of  the  sea. 


(Cfce 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    •    A 


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